


Ask Me/I Won't Say No, How Could I?

by someonestolemyshoes



Series: No, It's Not Like Any Other Love [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Alcohol, F/M, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Violence, University, no explicit content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"2:00am tastes like cheap whiskey, someone else’s cigarette smoke, and a tang of copper in the corner of his mouth."</p><p>In which Hange calls for help and Levi will always, always comply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask Me/I Won't Say No, How Could I?

**Author's Note:**

> This is just another transfer from Tumblr to Ao3. Thank you so much in advance for checking this out, and please, follow me on tumblr (someone-stole-my-shoes) if you have any fic requests you'd like me to try out.

2:00am tastes like cheap whiskey, someone else’s cigarette smoke, and a tang of copper in the corner of his mouth.

He smacks his lips against the flavour and a groan slithers out of his throat. There’s something warm and alive pressed against his hip, and he blinks one eye open, working to keep his lips from pulling into a frown, and traces his fingertips back and forth over the wrist at his waist. She turns, mismatched blonde extensions swinging across her shoulders, and smiles a hazy kind of grin.

He can smell vodka on her breathe when she leans down for a kiss and her hair reeks of tobacco, and it occurs to him that he doesn’t have a fucking clue what her name is but you know, the funny thing? He doesn’t give a shit. 

He isn’t doing this for her.

Soon as she’s close enough he turns her with a twist of her jaw and cups his mouth over her carotid. He can hear his own heart beat in his head, the rustle of his bed sheets (they’re crumpled and messy and it makes him squirm), and every breathy little sigh and hot moan he drags from her with each lave of his tongue. 

And all he can think about is another face. Another girl.

He tells himself he prefers blondes; that he isn’t into girls with glasses, anyway; that he likes the smell of vanilla over any other scent that any other girl might have.

He ignores that the extensions feel plastic beneath his fingers, and that her eyes are too blue and there’s too much mascara, that her perfume makes his tongue and lips sting. He convinces himself he likes it.

He stops her when she slips her hand down his torso and to the waistband of his jeans; he knows what she’ll find, and he knows she won’t be impressed. He wants to keep up the pretense for a little longer, at least, for both of their sakes.

Levi was never the type for one night stands. He doesn’t like going out, doesn’t like the heat and the sweat and the tack of spilled alcohol on his skin, or the smell of cigarette smoke on his clothes, and those are feelings he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over. But tonight he’d needed it. Needed to vent his pent-up frustrations and what better way than drowning his thoughts in the bottom of a whiskey glass.

The girl was an regrettable consequence. 

He’s about to tell her –whoever she is – that he’s had enough, that she should go home, but the chime of his phone ringing stops him mid-word.

The caller ID gives him pause for thought, and he considers, for a moment, ignoring the call, but it’s been three days since he last spoke to her and he can think of no good reason she’d be calling to break a feud in the early hours of the morning.

“Kind of busy, four-eyes. What do you want?”

There are noises, then, that make him freeze.

Gasps, whimpers, and a couple of dry sobs that thread their way in between, and the crack of knuckles, and the air she sucks in and shudders back out. There’s a hacking cough, and a sniffle, and then,

“Levi?”

“What’s wrong?”

He’s no longer concerned with their petty fight (he’s not even sure what it’s about, anymore), nor with the quizzical eyes watching him from the pillows, nor with anything in the world that doesn’t directly involve the voice on the other end of the line.

“Can you come get me? Please?” Her voice gets thicker with every word and by the end it’s watery and choked, and the sob that wracks her is shaky and terrified.

“Where are you?”

He’s already out of bed and grabbing his shirt. It doesn’t matter that it’s sticky, that it smells like a low-lit bar and staling smoke. He doesn’t even care about the lipstick stain on the collar.

He hears the girl in the bed ask him what’s going on and he scoops her dress from the floor, throwing it onto the mattress without another word. Shoes, he needs shoes.

“Say that again,” he says, phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder as he does up the buttons of his shirt, and Hange repeats the address – a back alley bar near the edge of town – and sucks in a couple more breaths. He’s not sure whether to ask her what’s happened. A crying Hange Zoe is not something Levi has ever encountered, and he doesn’t like to think of the reasons why she’s doing so now.

“You okay?” He asks, toeing his feet into his shoes. The girl – why the hell is she still here – is back in her dress and carrying her heels in her hands, her bag tucked under one arm. Levi holds the door for her, and she brushes past and into the hallway.

“No.”

He doesn’t think a single word has ever frightened him more.

He leaves the blonde outside the building with a fingers-crossed promise of next time and a smile that probably looks more like a grimace, and he sets off.

He doesn’t put the phone down the whole way, but they don’t talk. He just listens to every sniffle and hiccup and shaky inhale and his gut clenches painfully, worry winding tighter and tighter as the club lights grow nearer, walking as fast as his legs will carry him, and Hange chokes out another sob and then he’s running.

He hangs up as soon as he sees her.

She’s bracing her elbows on pulled up knees and the fingers of both hands are tunneled back through her hair, and Levi notices - with a nasty little pang behind his sternum – that there’s blood on her arms. The closer he gets, the more his insides churn. Her hair is a mess - more so than usual -, her ponytail pulled loose and hanging to one side, her glasses on the floor beside her and as he skids to a stop and kneels in front of her he sees there’s blood on her face, too. Her lip is split and gushing and there’s a gash near her hairline, and the beginnings of a bruise blooming across her cheek.

“Hange?”

He swallows once, his tongue like cotton in his mouth, and stares at the tear tracks on her cheeks as she counts measured breaths.

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.

Levi counts under his breath and nods when she meets his gaze. He’s not sure how to offer encouragement, or comfort, or anything in this situation. He’s scared to touch her.

He hates that she looks like she might break.

(What the fuck happened?)

(Are you in pain?)

(Do you need to see a doctor?)

(Can I get you anything?)

(How can I help?)

They’re all questions that barrel back and forth in his mind and all that comes out is,

“You look like shit.”

Hange chokes out a laugh and wipes the tears from her cheeks, and Levi thanks the heavens that she gets him.

“Can you take me home?”

**

In the end, he takes her back to his flat. He reasons that it’s closer and though they both know that’s not true, Hange doesn’t argue with him. By the time they’re nearing the building her weight is pressing more heavily against his shoulder and her eyes are starting to droop.

He nudges her with an elbow and she lifts her gaze to his. Without her glasses, she has to squint to see him properly.

“Nearly there, don’t fall asleep on me yet.”

She gives a small chuckle and tucks a blood-clumped lock of hair behind her ear, and they’re silent until they get into the flat. Hange sighs as Levi closes the front door behind them, rolling her shoulders and rubbing her neck.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Don’t make a mess.”

**

“That’s my jumper,” Levi says dryly, when Hange pads out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, tugging the hem of his jumper lower to keep herself covered. She looks marginally better without the blood on her face and hands, but she’s still pale and there are bags under her eyes and Levi’s chest tightens.

“Can I borrow some pants?”

Levi scowls, opens his top draw and launches a pair of girls boxers – one of the many pairs Hange has left behind over the last few months, idiot she is – in Hange’s direction. She catches them and slides them up her legs. Levi focuses on closing the draw, ignoring the exposed skin of her thighs. His jumper is a little too short on the arms, but it’s baggy across her torso and she’s looking at him, almost at a loss for what to do.

“Feeling better?” He asks, and Hange nods.

“Thanks,” she says, and he thinks it’s the first time he’s seen her look nervous, “for coming to get me. And, for not asking.”

He looks at her, then, long and hard and for a moment he wonders if she might tell him without prompt. He won’t push; he’s known her for long enough now to understand that he can’t force anything from her.

“And I’m sorry.”

Levi lifts a brow, and Hange ducks her eyes to the floor.

“I've been kind of shitty the last few days. I’m sorry.”

(It’s okay)

(Don’t worry about it)

(You've got nothing to be sorry for)

(You’re my best friend, I forgive you)

“Glad you've realised you’re a piece of shit.” He winces, and before she has time to reply he adds, “I didn’t mean that.”

Hange just grins.

“I know,” she says, and she walks over and hooks her arms around his shoulders. His face presses against her neck and he can feel her pulse beneath his nose, and she’s warm and inviting and her hair is damp, her skin soft and he can smell his shower gel on her, and for a fleeting moment he wants to kiss the skin beneath his lips to see if it stings like the vanilla perfume.

And then he pulls away, before he does something stupid.

He comes back in the room to find Hange already curled beneath the bed clothes. There’s a guilty twist in his gut; he should have changed the sheets. It feels wrong sharing them with Hange, after what he almost did earlier.

He ignores the voice that tells him it feels like…like cheating.

Levi tugs the duvet up and over, dragging it from Hange’s clenched fists, and slips onto the mattress. It feels nice, having her there. She shuffles, and one cold foot finds the bare skin where the hem of his sweats has ridden up.

“Stick to your own side,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t mind. And she doesn’t move.

It’s quiet, and Levi is drifting, when Hange’s voice echoes out around the room. 

“Those aren't my underwear.”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” he says, rolling to face her back and propping himself on one elbow. One of Hange’s arms peaks out and she points a slender finger to the floor.

A thong. Red satin, black lace. He feels guilty, for a moment, then reminds himself there’s no need to.

“She had those on when I last checked.”

There’s a pause. Hange lies very still, arm retracted beneath the warmth of the bed clothes. Levi waits, breath tight in his chest, for her to respond.

“Did you at least get laid?”

(I couldn't do it)

(I didn't like her hair)

(She didn't smell right)

(I kept thinking about you, and she felt wrong)

Levi scowls into the darkness and kicks at her ankle under the sheets.

“No, dumb-ass, somebody interrupted.”

**

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t even know. I just wanted some cute Levihan we’re-just-friends-but-who-are-we-kidding interactions (maybe I’ll write Hange’s side to this one day who knows)
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


End file.
